Mrs. Bumpkin examined the document he had left, and found a most righteous statement of the services rendered by this great and good man; which, after giving credit to Mr. Bumpkin for cash received from Mr. Skinalive, Mr. Prigg’s friend, of seven hundred and twenty-two pounds, six shillings and eightpence-half-penny, left a balance due to Honest Lawyer Prigg of three hundred and twenty-eight pounds, seven shillings and threepence,—subject, of course, to be reduced on taxation.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Farewell.
The last chapter of a book must always possess a special and melancholy interest for the author. He gives his words reluctantly, almost grudgingly, like one who is spending his last coins and will soon be left penniless upon the world. Or like one who is passing his last moments at the house of a friend whom he may see no more for ever. The author is taking farewell of his characters and his readers, and therefore his regret is twofold; added to which is the doubt as to whether, judged by the severe standard of Public Opinion, he has been faithful to both. Thought is large, and may fill the world, permeating every class and every section of society; it may be circumscribed, and operate only upon some infinitesimal proportion of mankind: but whether great or small, for good or evil, it is published, and a corresponding responsibility devolves upon the writer. I record my dream faithfully, and am therefore exonerated, in my conscience, from responsibility in its effect.
How shall I describe the closing scene of this eventful story? I will imagine nothing; I will exaggerate nothing; for, during the whole progress of the story, it has been my constant care not to give the most captious critic the opportunity of saying that I have exaggerated a single incident. I will relate faithfully what I saw in
my dream, and that only; diminishing nothing, and adding nothing.
In my waking moments my wife said it was very wrong of Mr. Bumpkin, after all that Mr. Prigg had done for him, to be so rude. I agreed that it was: but said, great allowance must be made for Mr. Bumpkin’s want of education. Then said my wife, “Will not some shallow-minded persons say that your story attacks the administration of justice?” To which I replied that it did not matter what shallow-minded persons said, but that in fact I had in no way attacked the administration of justice; nor had I in the least degree reflected on the great body of respectable solicitors who had in their hands the interests of the country, and faithfully discharged their duties. And then I stood up, and putting forth my hand in imitation of Pitt’s statue in the corridor of the House of Commons, I said, “Justice is Divine, not Human; and you cannot detract from anything that is Divine, any more than you can lessen the brilliancy of the sun. You may obscure its splendour to mortal eyes, but its effulgence is the same. Man may so ostensibly assert his own dignity, or the dignity of a perishable system, that it may temporarily veil the beauty of a Divine attribute; but Justice must still remain the untarnished glory of Divine wisdom. It is not the pomp of position or the majesty of office that imparts dignity to Justice.”
Here, exhausted with my effort, and with my wife’s applause ringing in my ears, I fell asleep again, and dreamed that I saw Bumpkin sadly wandering about the old farm; his faithful wife following, and never for one moment ceasing to cheer him up. It was a fine bright morning in October as they wandered
forth. There wasn’t a living thing about the farm except the birds, and even they seemed sad in their twittering. Could it be possible that they knew of poor Bumpkin’s miserable condition?
There was an old jackdaw that certainly did; for he hopped and hopped along after the master with the saddest expression I ever saw bird wear. But the master took no notice. On and on he wandered, seemingly unconscious of the presence even of his wife.